


how deep is the ocean

by soupmetaphors



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26813293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soupmetaphors/pseuds/soupmetaphors
Summary: A job goes wrong. Someone gets hurt. Frank remembers how sharp the edge of love can be.
Relationships: Ennio Salieri/Frank Colletti
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	how deep is the ocean

_How much do I love you?_  
_I'll tell you no lie:_  
_How deep is the ocean?_  
_How high is the sky?_

How Deep Is The Ocean, Frank Sinatra

* * *

_1901._

The man behind the counter does not look pleased to see either of them: he shifts from foot to foot, eyeing them with barely contained contempt, and Frank’s gaze cannot help but keep dragging itself to the splotches of bright red on his apron, the row of shiny knives hung on the wall behind him.

“— as you can see here, sir—” he continues, forcing himself to look back down at the book he’s spread open between them, “— the payment for this month’s protection requires an increase simply due to rise in, ah, _unwanted incidents_ in the neighborhood.”

He isn’t a physically imposing man, he understands. For all the extra portions of meat his mother had sneaked onto his plate growing up, the first glasses of fresh milk, the bites of pastry and licks of butter off spoons, Frank Colletti has always been considered an easy target for men unwilling to listen to reason and logic.

Which is why, somewhere behind him, Ennio Salieri stands with his arms crossed and a patient smile on his face— or, at least, he _hopes_ Ennio is standing there. It’s become routine for Frank to handle the general discussion of numbers, marking up payments and debts and favors in his notebook, trusting that his partner is within earshot in case the situation sours on a dime.

He can count the number of times on one hand that Ennio has pulled him out of the way of a punch, the number of times he’s sat up all night trying to stitch up the consequences of those little skirmishes— and judging from the sneer the butcher throws him, Frank has a sickening suspicion he’s about to add another finger to the tally.

“ _Unwanted incidents_.” The butcher spits aside. “I’ve been here longer than you two shmucks have been out from behind your mother’s skirts. This neighborhood’s never been this bad.”

“Times are tough. People are getting desperate.” Frank shrugs. “It doesn’t take long for good men to resort to their baser instincts, sir.”

The butcher leans over the counter, his shadow falling over the accounts book. This close, Frank can smell the blood on him, the familiar copper scent causing his stomach to briefly roil— and when he looks up, the man is just inches away from his face.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, _boys_.”

“We’re not _doing_ anything, sir. We simply want to assist you in providing your uninterrupted services to the neighborhood. A little helping hand, I believe the term is.”

If the butcher has even heard his explanation, he does not acknowledge it. Instead, he stabs an accusatory finger at Frank’s chest. “I know your tricks: Going round, staging these fights so people start coughin’ up more than they really need to just to _feel safe_ —”

“Sir, I—”

“— I ain’t one of them, though. I’m not as stupid as you think.”

Frank resists the urge to glance back at Ennio. The last thing he needs is for their erstwhile client to sense a weak spot, to drive a wedge it in and pry it open like a tin can. Protection has always been a legitimate business— and all the two of them ever deal in are in legitimate businesses, of course, the opinions of anyone else be damned. Instead, he snaps the book shut, tapping the cover with his fingers.

“This business can be swiftly concluded once you pay what is owed,” he says. “We wouldn’t want to hold you form your trade a moment longer, sir.”

The butcher sizes him up. Frank has become accustomed to that in the past few years they’ve been working the old neighborhood: the sharp, measuring stare that drinks in his size and stature before it snaps to Ennio and realizes that there are better fights to pick. He waits until the butcher turns away before he allows himself a tiny breath of relief.

 _At least that’s over with,_ he thinks, only now turning to nod at his partner. The last debt of the month, and before he gets down to arranging their accounts, there might be time for dinner, he thinks.

Ennio smiles at him, leaning against one of the shelves of tinned goods only a few steps away; and it’s that smile that always throws Frank for a loop with its ease and openness, the way the light of it always reaches the younger man’s eyes. He is about to smile back when the butcher’s voice slices through his train of thought.

“ _Here’s_ your payment, you lousy bastards!”

Frank turns just in time to see the butcher bring his sharpest cleaver down on the space where his hand is, still resting on the book. He yanks his hand back just as the cleaver slices through the book, right into the glass of the counter. The crash of shattering glass is deafening, shards exploding everywhere, and Frank feels Ennio grab his arm.

“ _Run!_ ” his partner shouts, dragging him backwards.

Glass crunches underfoot as they skitter towards the door, Frank glancing over his shoulder to see the butcher making a mad scramble to reach them. They burst out into the street, and he almost slips, Ennio’s tight grip keeping him on his feet as they run.

They race down, down the street, dodging pedestrians and street vendors, and at one point Ennio pulls them right across an intersection, ignoring Frank’s yelp of surprise, car honks erupting all around them. They run until Frank can feel his lungs burn, until sweat beads his forehead, until his partner pulls him into an alley and abruptly stops.

He disengages himself from Ennio, bending over and trying to catch his breath. It’s only when he reaches up to wipe his forehead and winces at the sting that he realizes his hands are bleeding— minor damage from the glass, he’s certain; nothing that cannot be fixed, nothing that will not heal properly.

Straightening, he pushes up his glasses and grins, shakily. “That was an experience.”

Ennio leans against the alley wall, a frown flickering across his face. “It was. I didn’t expect he would use the knife.”

“What _did_ you expect?”

For a brief moment, there’s a glimmer of mischief in the younger man’s eyes. “A gun.”

“A gun.” Frank laughs, disbelieving. “If he had a gun, you’d be standing here all alone now.”

And just like that, the light is swallowed in those warm eyes, replaced by something cold, calculating. “Yeah. Guess I would.”

They do not speak for a moment. Frank knows that the gears are turning in Ennio’s head, that careful plans of retribution are being chalked up and refined. Clients are good for business, but a disrespectful client only deserves what is coming to them. When there is no one to offer you protection, anything can happen. Even the best sheepdogs sometimes turn rabid, and if tomorrow the butcher is simply managed by someone else, perhaps no one would bat an eyelid.

“I think,” Frank begins, carefully, “I left the book back there.”

“Forget it. I’ll go there myself tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll have cooled off by then.”

“And if he hasn’t?”

Ennio tilts his head. His voice is matter-of-fact when he speaks: “I’ll take care of him, Frank. Don’t worry.”

 _Don’t worry._ Ah, that phrase. All Frank ever _does_ is worry when it wriggles its way into their conversations. Ennio might not be the hothead of the Peppone family— no, for he knows there are far worst and far nearer snakes within reach— but there is always worry. A slight misstep can turn this incident into a far bigger situation than anyone would want.

“Don’t worry,” Ennio repeats, drawing him gently away from his thoughts. “Come on, cheer up, Francesco. At least you’ve still got your hand.”

“Small price to pay for a few nicks,” he agrees, and suddenly he is being crowded by his partner.

The younger man gently holds up his hands, examining the cuts, careful not to touch them. Concern etches itself over his features, brow furrowed, and all Frank can think about is how warm his hands are, how large that they engulf his own.

“We ought to get some bandages on these,” Ennio murmurs.

“It’s nothing.” He tries to gingerly pull his hands away to no avail. “I can tend to these myself.”

“I’ll do it.” Frank wants to protest: there are more pressing matters for his partner to take care of, other much more important business for the Don, and yet he wants to stay and play nurse. It isn’t that he’s ungrateful— it is simply that he is embarrassed to be fussed over for such a small matter.

“ _Ennio_ ,” Frank starts, and almost bites his tongue clean in half when the other man touches his cheek, stopping every possible thought he had.

“For you, it isn’t just _nothing_ , do you understand?”

Frank can feel the warmth of his hand against his face. He can feel the way Ennio’s thumb begins to gently stroke his skin, and when he looks up, the other man’s gaze snaps him up and locks him in with a gentle hunger.

And all he can do is nod in response.

Which is how, an hour later, Frank is watching him gently wrap the last of the bandages around his hands. The apartment they share is hot, especially in the summer, and they’ve been forced to be rid of their jackets, rolling up their sleeves to elevate the oppressive heat. The whole time Ennio has been carefully cleaning and tending to his cuts, Frank has found himself staring almost guiltily at his hands. It is almost frightening, the way he has seen those hands in such different acts of violence: around the grip of a gun, curled into a fist, splayed open against a throat.

And it is also those same hands that have, some nights, found their way into his; that have squeezed his shoulder when no one is looking, that have brushed his skin and found him wanting— because, at the end of the day, desire drives him to his knees like a knife to the gut.

Because sometimes Frank looks over at Ennio and the words that pass unspoken between them will not reach his lips no matter how hard he tries; because, in a better world, he understands they will know how to say it to each other.

“There we go.”

Frank snaps out of his reverie as Ennio lifts his hands to his lips, gently pressing kisses against the fabric, careful as to not hurt him further. The older man can feel the heat creep up the side of his face; hears himself mumble something that might be his partner’s name, twisting his face away in embarrassment.

“Look at you,” he hears Ennio laugh. “Redder than that goddamn car I see Sergio driving around.”

“ _Please_.” Frank tries to roll his eyes, but Ennio leans over and kisses his jaw, the sensation itself driving him to silence.

“Please what, Francesco?”

Another kiss, this time at the pulse point on his neck. He wonders, briefly, if Ennio can feel the abrupt way his heart begins to race. His hands drift from Ennio’s grip, settling themselves almost instinctually on the other man’s thighs. They’re sitting so close it is almost unbearable, no matter how many times they have done this song and dance.

 _It never gets easier_.

No, not with the way Ennio is pawing at his shirt, fumbling with the buttons nor the way he reaches for his partner’s face, trying to guide him exactly where he wants his mouth. Eventually, the message gets across, and Frank moans as Ennio smashes his mouth against his, all tongue and teeth as they kiss, shirts momentarily forgotten.

 _I love you_ , he tries to think, as though the younger man can hear his thoughts if he wills it. _I love you._

Perhaps, if he tries hard enough, he’ll hear Ennio think it back, too.

* * *

_1929._

“— and that takes care of this month’s accounts.”

Frank closes the book and reaches for his drink. The bar is almost closed; he can hear Luigi in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes for the night. Next to him, Ennio knocks back his whiskey, setting the glass down with a laugh.

“You’re a genius with numbers, Francesco. Has anyone told you that?”

“You,” Frank says, and the other man smiles at him. It’s that same smile he’s seen every single day for the decades they have been together, and yet, as always, it makes him look down and away, flustered.

“Not again,” he hears Ennio groan. “You have to learn to stop doing, you know.”

“Don’t— don’t act like you don’t like it.”

Stunned silence before another laugh, and Frank almost slams his head against the bar when he feels Ennio kiss the shell of his ear.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mumbles as Ennio kisses him again.

“I love you too, Francesco.”

The words always feel as though he’s hearing them for the first time all over again. He whines as he turns to bury his head in Ennio’s shoulder, gripping his arm as the other man gently rubs his back.

“You have to stop doing that, too.”

He knows it is all bluster: that they’ll stay in their same routines and patterns until, eventually, the inevitable happens. So he nods into the fabric, and waits, waits for the moment when he will have to pull back and let go.

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for my rat mob. apologies for any spelling mistakes/errors i couldn't catch in time. i have a soft spot for old men in love. also, yes, many liberties were taken. this was also written in a rush, so sorry if it seems a little hurried!


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